In Which Sherlock Wears the Handcuffs
by Driffta
Summary: Riding Crop Part II. ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP. Mycroft has had his suspicions about Sherlock's and John's relationship and now he has the proof. Will he allow the two to continue on in peace? What will Sherlock do when he finds out about the encounter?


**Warnings**: John being a total BAMF! (Seriously, that's hot enough to make the strongest heart turn into an excited puddle of goo…) But anyway, swearing, lotsa kinky, slashy shagging, some very awkward situations, dub con, uh….possessive Sherlock, and, uh, I think that's pretty much all. This is rated M for a reason, folks. If you haven't read any of our other stories, then you should probably know that Calabash and I write a lot of kinky slash, so if you don't like slash then please don't read.

**Disclaimers**: We do not own any of these delightful characters or people or stories or shows or movies or anything, but we would dearly love to…

**Summary**: As requested, here is part II of In Which the Riding Crop Gets Some Action. Written by the amazing Where's My Calabash as John, and my humble self as Sherlock. As much as I'd like to blame Mycroft on Calabash, I can't do her that injustice! He is of my writing, she did give me some excellent ideas for his questions, though…she really is brilliant. I do apologize in advance for him being terribly OOC.

Mycroft has had his suspicions about Sherlock's and John's relationship and now he has the proof. Will he allow the two to continue on in peace? What will Sherlock do when he finds out about the encounter? Read to find out the answers!

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><p>When the alarm went off the morning after John Hamish Watson got fucked in the arse with a riding crop, he picked it up and hurled it with all of his considerable strength against the wall. It wasn't anger that prompted the act of violence against his trusty alarm; at least, it wasn't anger at the clock. If he was angry at all, which John supposed he probably was, it was at the fact that he was now going to be forced to roll himself out of bed, and dress for the day as if nothing had happened the night before. He'd stumble into the loo and take a shower, which would wash away the sweet smell of Sherlock's sleepy body that was currently pressed up to him, naked and warm. He would brush his teeth, which would erase all traces of Sherlock's lips and tongue and breath. He would comb his hair, which would unruffle all the wonderful furrows that Sherlock's fingers had made on his scalp, and he would get dressed, which was perhaps the worst thing of all. Getting dressed meant covering up the gorgeous purple and blue marks that currently littered his tanned skin. John knew he should be upset. His arse throbbed. His flesh was bruised and scratched. His lip was still swollen and he could taste dried blood in the corners of his mouth.<p>

_Bloody hell, it was glorious. _

And so died the alarm clock, smashed to bits on the side of the wall, and John lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. At last, he glanced over at the snoring man next to him, and he smirked. In his right hand, Sherlock still clenched the crop tightly, and he squirmed a little in his sleep, moaning.

For several minutes, John considered calling in sick. He would have traded just about anything, including giving up his practice, to just have a lie in all day with Sherlock, nurse his wounds, make his young lover wait on him hand and foot... John sighed. He was a doctor. And doctors were healers. There were people, waiting for him at the clinic... people that needed healing. He turned, leaning down to breathe in the sleepy smell of Sherlock's damp, sweaty curls, and he swung his legs out of bed. He wasn't going to wake him. He'd let Sherlock sleep.

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><p>Mycroft had upped the surveillance on his brother and Doctor Watson from day one, he liked to keep an eye on little Sherlock. He sighed, there had been some rumours about the two and he felt it his duty to check on it. If it were true, that would mean his brother and Dr Watson had been romantically involved for some time now. Mycroft really did not want to believe it and so he had put it off until now. Now he could simply not ignore it. Sherlock had all but kissed the man in public. Mummy would cringe if she knew. Mycroft sat back in his leather armchair and waited. He had called a car to pick up the doctor at 221B and Dr Watson would be here any moment. Mycroft rubbed a hand across his forehead; he really did not want to be doing this right now. He wanted to be doing anything but this. He knew, however, that it was his duty to look after Sherlock. He had, after all, promised their mother the day his younger brother had decided to pursue his childish occupation of being the world's only consulting detective. From outside the building he could hear a car pull up and he opened his eyes, a genial mask settling on his face. Time to play the game. Time to inquire after his brother. Pity, really. He had liked Dr Watson in his own way, but if this relationship was not good for his younger brother, as Mycroft was convinced it was not, then the man would have to go.<p>

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><p>"Oh, you've got to be joking." John groaned as he stepped out of the flat, locking the front door. He stood for a long moment on the stoop, staring at the black sedan that was waiting for him. When he'd momentarily wished the night before that Mycroft would pick him up in the morning, he'd been completely off his nut. He hadn't been serious. And now... John approached the vehicle irritably, bending down as the passenger window lowered. He peeked inside. "Hello, again."<p>

Anthea glanced up only momentarily from her texting. "Hello."

John crossed his arms, pressing his lips together. He felt stubborn and resistant today. He probably had Sherlock and his antics to thank for that. After being ravaged all night by a manic detective with a riding crop, John simply didn't feel like acquiescing to yet another Holmes. "What if I simply refuse to go?" he asked, cocking his head. "I have patients, you know."

Anthea didn't meet his eyes. "They've been reassigned." She blinked once at the screen, and John wondered briefly if she was even human. "We're running late, Dr. Watson." It was pointless to resist. John knew it. He exhaled through his nose, his cheeks reddening furiously, and he let himself in.

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><p>The door opened and John Watson walked into the room, a carefully schooled calm look on his sleep deprived face.<p>

'Ah, Dr Watson, pleasure to see you again after so long.' Mycroft flashed a clandestine smile and nodded at a stiff chair on the other side of his desk. 'Please, sit.' He took in the slight discolouration right underneath John's right ear; a kiss mark. His eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly when he saw how gingerly John Watson sat down, and his insides clenched when he noticed the angry reddish-blue welts around the good doctor's wrists. 'Do you know why you're here?'

John winced as he sat. Mycroft's office chairs were hard, and uncomfortable, and he was... sore. Very sore. He attempted to keep an aloof, curious expression on his face, but he saw the twitch in the older man's jaw, and his stomach twisted. "I've no idea," John lied, his hands clutching at the clawed arms of the high backed chair. "But I would appreciate it if you'd start giving me a bit of notice first. I dislike being abducted at all hours."

Mycroft snorted a little, 'I'm sure. Well, Dr Watson, it has come to my attention that you and my brother may have formed an...attachment.' That last word was uttered with more than a little distain as Mycroft eyed the visible and not so visible marks on the doctor's body. 'I'm afraid I have to ask you, Dr Watson, is this true?' He knew it was - he just had to have it confirmed by the man himself before he made his move. He had to gather a little more information. 'I urge you to be truthful, we're both busy men, and I'd hate to have to resort to less pleasurable methods.'

"Less pleasurable methods?" John repeated back to him, the flush in his face growing deeper. He knew what Mycroft was driving at, and he shifted in his chair as he felt those burning eyes raking all over his body. He knew already that most of the marks Sherlock had left on him last night were not visible, hidden beneath layers of cotton and wool, but there were a few on his neck he was sure were quite noticeable, and instinctively, he brought his wrists to his lap, rubbing them together. Damn they were sore. "Methods like you used on Jim Moriarty?" he asked bitterly. He'd never forgive Mycroft for that indiscretion as long as he lived. "Don't think Sherlock would take too kindly to that, do you? Especially if, as you said, we've developed an…attachment." He spat the last word.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'My brother would never know, Doctor. I am very capable of making people disappear...I could make it quite obvious that your last, ah, entanglement had not been well accepted. I have several options open to me, that is only one of them, so I suggest you comply...' especially if you wish to continue this relationship. Mycroft did not need to say that last part, his face portrayed it well enough without the words. 'Sherlock is more naive than you may have guessed. For someone with his intelligence he is quite gullible, even blind, when it comes to the things he considers his.'

"Like me?" John leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. He felt the nudge of his mobile phone in his pocket, felt it buzz silently. No doubt Sherlock's first text of the day. He ignored it, glaring at his lover's brother from across the huge desk. Threats. That was all this man was full of. He looked him up and down, nostrils flaring, and he shook his head. "Ask me anything you like, Mycroft. I've nothing to hide. As for making me disappear... you and I both know Sherlock would find me, and we both know whose word he'd take should it come to it."

Mycroft's smile turned a little sour and his mask slipped for just a moment. 'Well then, Dr Watson, allow me to cut to the chase. You and my brother have been in a relationship for some months now. Tell me, how is it? Is Sherlock very good in bed? He can be so childish when he doesn't get his way. Does he ever apologize after your rougher encounters or do you prefer it that way?' Mycroft shifted slightly in his armchair before continuing. 'Have you ever tried anything a little less...violent? Or do you like to live on the edge?' The older Holmes brother felt as though he should be shuddering in displeasure on the inside, but he found himself having a little more than a passing curiosity of John Watson's sex life. Mycroft studied John's face, watching his reactions with great interest behind the bored expression.

John couldn't help it. His jaw dropped. "Wh..." He sat frozen in his chair, blinking rapidly, trying to process the barrage of questions. "What... could you possibly have to gain by asking me this?" he finally managed to grind out, and it felt as if every spare drop of blood in his body had rushed to his cheeks. "Sherlock and I.. what we do in our flat is not your affair." He stood suddenly, clenching and unclenching his fists. "I'm leaving."

Mycroft smiled, 'ah, I see...so I was right...you do enjoy it and you are the "bottom". How amusing, I'd always imagined you as somewhat authoritative, but I suppose my dear little brother can be a little obstinate.' He saw John stiffen and knew that his words had gotten to the army doctor. 'Be sure you don't do anything to hurt him, Dr Watson. He _is_ my brother and I am a little protective of him...' Mycroft left the threat hang in the air. John Watson had been warned.

John had taken three steps when Mycroft's words hit his ears. He hesitated, then turned on his heel and strode back to the desk, his shoes clicking powerfully on the wooden floors. He pressed his palms into Mycroft's desk, leaning over to stare deeply into those cold eyes. "Now look here, you miserable sod," he hissed, and felt a rush of perverse enjoyment at Mycroft's shocked expression, "I've been looking after your brother for over three years now. And in that time, he hasn't used once, he's stopped smoking, and he's gained exactly seventeen pounds. He's had friends over for the holidays, he's solved more cases than any other time in his career, and yeah, you know what? He's having sex. Good sex. Rough sex. Hot, buggered, rough sex. You want answers? Here they are. Yes, Sherlock is shagging me. We've been fucking for a while now, and it's not looking to stop any time soon. Yes, Sherlock's good in bed, and no, he doesn't apologize, because I've never asked or expected him to. Do I like getting buggered? Yeah, I do, I do because it's your brother, Mycroft, because it's Sherlock, and I love him. And that's more than you can say. You warn me not to hurt him?" John furrowed his brow, and reached out to grab a handful of Mycroft's ridiculously expensive three piece suit. "Now it's my turn. You ever fucking hurt him again, and I will come after you myself." He straightened, tugging on his jacket.

Mycroft sat back in his chair, slightly out of breath as he adjusted his suit, straightening the black tie. He was slightly affronted. Despite his uncaring attitude he did love that foolish brother of his, though he would never admit it to anyone. John Watson had passed the test. Mycroft would, despite his misgivings, allow the two of them to coexist for the time being. 'Have a good day, Dr Watson,' he said, ignoring the threat he had been given, 'we'll be keeping in touch.' Mycroft raised his chin and gave John a level stare, showing him he was not in the least frightened by the man; even though he was, just a little.

John met the gaze steadily, and he cleared his throat. "Not too soon, I hope," he muttered, and wheeled about, marching from the room as swiftly as his military gait would allow. Anthea was waiting for him. As John lowered himself into the sedan, she asked him where they were dropping him, and for a brief moment, John thought about going to the clinic. He knew he probably should. God only knew where Mycroft had shuffled his patients off to. But the mobile in his pocket buzzed again, reminding him that Sherlock was still waiting for his morning text, and so John pulled it out. He glanced at the screen, and his eyes widened. "Shit. Take me to Baker Street."

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><p>Sherlock's blood had run cold. John had, by accident, answered his mobile and Sherlock had heard a part of Mycroft's and John's conversation. Namely the part where Mycroft was interrogating John, HIS John about their sex life...And fuck it all if John hadn't hung up on him before their conversation had ended. Sherlock was left with a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach. The last thing he'd heard was 'my brother can be a little obstinante'...Sherlock had immediately sent John a text.<p>

_Come home right now. Urgent. Need to talk. -SH_

Now all he could do was wait until John came back. He jiggled his leg before propelling himself from their bed and dressing himself in John's favourite outfit: a burgundy silk button up, black jacket, and black trousers that fit him extremely well. Sherlock threw his head back and growled. He would kill Mycroft if he had tried to turn John's head. After all, who wouldn't find John attractive? The man had a strange quality about him that was absolutely irresistible. Mycroft had always liked collecting Sherlock's things. 'No! No! Wrong! John!' Sherlock muttered, pacing up and down their bedroom before storming into the front room and standing by the door. Christ! What was taking him? Sherlock drummed his fingers against a long leg and traversed the length of the room before walking back into the bedroom to retrieve the cuffs from their resting place on the night table. John would explain exactly what had transpired or Sherlock would not be able to be responsible for his actions.

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><p>John was angry. At Mycroft, at himself, at Sherlock. Mycroft... well that was obvious. The man was a poster child for annoying, micro-managing in-laws. But John was angry at himself as well, because no matter how many times Sherlock texted him the same thing, "Come home, urgent" or something similar, John always found himself rushing back to the flat with a hot coal in his stomach. Inevitably Sherlock only needed John to fetch him some sugar for his coffee from Mrs. Hudson, or wanted John to hand him a pen, which explained his current petulance towards his lover, but John still raced back, every single time. He just knew the one time he ignored that text would be the one time Sherlock was truly in danger. The moment they reached 221 Baker St, he leapt from the large black car, and took the stairs two at a time. Sherlock wasn't answering his inquiring texts. He hoped he was all right... "Sherlock?" John burst in the door of the flat, his eyes wide. "Sh..." John stopped short. Sherlock stood next to the fireplace, straight backed and ominous.<p>

Sherlock waited for a moment, the cuffs placed under the coffee table in easy access but quite out of sight. 'You were with Mycroft.' He said, turning around and gazing into John's eyes. He noted the flush that crept up John's face with displeasure. Sherlock's hackles rose. Mycroft was fucking dead.

John felt his heart drop into his stomach. Sherlock looked... positively deadly. There was a cool, underlying peril to his voice, and John's hair stood up on his arms. "Sherlock?" He didn't understand. Mycroft had kidnapped him dozens of times. It had never bothered his flat mate before. "Yeah…he had a few questions. Bloody wanker."

Sherlock's eyes flashed and he straightened up just a little, making himself even taller. 'Oh?' He frowned nonchalantly, as if it were merely of passing interest, all the while his insides were seething. 'What sort of questions?' Sherlock advanced a little, doing his very best to remain calm. He would not blow up until he had reason to. He would not.

John clasped his hands behind his back, his mind racing. How much to tell? How much had Sherlock already guessed? He decided on a half-truth. "He was concerned about you. Wanted me to tell him if…" John coughed. "If you've been acting strange."

'Strange?' Sherlock halted right in front of John, his hands clasped behind his back. 'I always act strange, don't I? Why would he bother you for information he already has?' _And why are you lying?_ Sherlock's nose wrinkled in displeasure, his eyes narrowed a little. 'What are you not telling me, John?' _Please tell me..._

John didn't meet those bright, shining eyes. They were too sharp, and too piercing. He backed up a step, and tried once more, shrugging his jacket off nonchalantly. "It was nothing, Sherlock... Mycroft is an arse, you know that. Got any biscuits?" He turned and ducked into the kitchen, making a great show of searching the cabinets.

Sherlock's heart sunk, his stomach twisted. John was lying. What had Mycroft said? Sherlock cracked his neck and stooped over the coffee table, grabbing the handcuffs and stalking up behind John. 'You're lying to me, John Watson, I know, I always know.' He whispered into that perfect shell of an ear. 'I don't like being lied to.' Sherlock pulled John to him, holding his smaller body tightly as he grasped the man's already bruised wrists and almost sweetly clipped the cuffs around John's wrist yet again. This time, though, he had thought to put a cover around the metal so it would not chafe his dear Watson quite so much. Sherlock's hands snuck down John's arms and reached his stomach, pulling out the tucked in jumper. 'You are really a very bad man...'

John yelped, immediately struggling against the cuffs, and his eyes grew huge. "Sherlock, no," he said firmly, backing away, eyeing the bedroom door where he knew the keys were lying on the side table next to their bed. "This is ridiculous. All right you want to know what Mycroft said? He wanted to know if we were shagging and I told him yes. Now take these off." John inched closer to the bedroom, his eyes on his partner the entire way.

Sherlock advanced on John, herding him to the bedroom. He leaned his head back and took a deep breath before closing the gap between himself and John, picking him up princess style and carrying him off the their room, doing his best to avoid the wild kicks and struggles. 'I don't believe you, John; I know he said something else.' He dumped John unceremoniously onto the bed and shoved him to the opposite end. 'What. Did. He. Ask. You?' Sherlock demanded, pulling the buttons from John's jumper, he was quite pleased that John was not wearing a pullover this time - made things so much easier.

This was... familiar. John began to squirm, a low, terrible panic rising in his gut. His body throbbed at him, the blood pumping through his great heart into his extremities, his temples, his sore wrists, his scratched and red stomach, his aching rear end. He swallowed hard, panting. "Sherlock, fuck... I swear, he was just... asking questions. About you. About us. He just…he's looking out for you in his own sick way. Fuck, please... it hurts, Sherlock, let me out of here." John grimaced as Sherlock's hands yanked the jumper open roughly, and began work on his trousers.

Sherlock ignored John's pleas, 'He doesn't "look out" for me, John. He was after something else and we both know it, so why don't you spit. It. OUT!' He pulled John's trousers down and made short work of the blue and white striped boxers. John was HIS and Sherlock was going to make damn sure that he and everyone else would know that this time. Sherlock was going to make his mark. He kissed John angrily, his teeth clashing against John's, their noses bumping against each other. His hands roamed over John's body, touching the pale red welts that were just starting to heal over.

John protested into Sherlock's mouth, his voice lost in the blackness of the embrace, and he cried out as clothes were torn from his body. He twisted about on the bed, trying to roll away. Sherlock's strong, wiry arm caught him and hauled him back, and John gasped as he felt those perfect teeth sink into a bright crimson mark on his shoulder. "Not again," he whimpered, and his cuffed wrists came down to shove at Sherlock's chest. "Sherlock, I swear, look at me... It's John. Me, John. I swear, Mycroft only asked me a few questions. That's all."

'Why are you lying?' Sherlock hissed. He could not look John in the eyes without a deep rage and a painful feeling welling up inside him. Why was John doing this to him? Was John...did John...no, Sherlock would not entertain those thoughts. 'I heard him, John; I know what he was saying. Why don't you admit it?' He bit out, ripping into John's inner thighs with his fingernails. Sherlock could not bear the thought of John leaving him, he could not lose John.

"Bloody hell!" John shouted, and instinctively, he clawed at Sherlock's chest, trying to push him away, to protect himself. "What did he say? What did you hear? Shit, Sherlock, that hurts..." He bit his lip, feeling a trickle of blood down his thigh, and anger flared up in his breast. Fucking Holmes men... "He asked if we were shagging. He asked if... if we liked it rough." John laughed bitterly, and arched as Sherlock's mouth sucked on the juncture of his leg and hip bone. "Didn't... think I... should tell him exactly how rough," he added breathlessly.

Sherlock let out a disbelieving snort. 'Mycroft was fucking coming on to you, wasn't he, John? Bastard! I...' Sherlock could not continue, his throat closed. If he tried to take John away. Mycroft had almost always gotten what he wanted in the end; he had always had the upper hand when they were children. Sherlock stroked John's ankle with the pads of his fingers, kissing the sides of his knees, licking down his leg, lifting John's foot and kissing the sole, grazing his teeth angrily against the soft underside. He loved John. He did not want John to leave him. Sherlock would kill Mycroft if he took John away.

John nearly lost Sherlock's words in the haze of desperate arousal that now threatened to suck him down into the dark pit, the place where pain and pleasure bled together until they were one and the same, the place where he always drowned in the mire of Sherlock's touch, Sherlock's eyes, Sherlock's body. But as those teeth danced over his flesh, over the sensitive sole of his foot, John slowly registered what his lover had said, and he shook himself, grunting as he attempted, and failed, to sit up. "Wh..wh.. Coming onto me?" he stammered, and his eyes widened as Sherlock's expression twisted in fury. John wriggled away, his feet kicking. "Mycroft? Sherlock, you can't be serious." But he was. And John could see it in the rage that lined his sculpted face. His throat was suddenly dry. "No, Sherlock. Look at me. No. No, no no no no. It was..." He had no words. He strained against the handcuffs, helpless.

'It was _what?_' Sherlock snarled, pulling on the muscular leg, pulling John close to him, their faces so very, very close. 'Tell me you won't leave me, John. Promise me.' His hands grasped John's biceps, his grip tight enough to leave bruises. 'Tell me, John.'

"Leave you?" The words fell from numb lips, and John stilled, his struggles dissipating, his jaw dropping. He stared at Sherlock, the tall, dark, beautiful man that he loved, and John felt his blood run cold. He was lying on his back, naked, handcuffed and exposed, and yet... it was Sherlock that was vulnerable. He hovered over John, pale face painted with fear, fingers digging into John's flesh, breath hot and panicked on his cheeks. John blinked, skin flushing in anger. "Sherlock... let me go."

Sherlock choked back a sob. His eyes clouded over. 'Let...you go...' he was paralyzed with fear for a half second before he let the cold mask he used for everyone else, for everyone but John, slide onto his face. He released John, digging into his trouser pockets and handing him the keys. Sherlock turned his head away from the naked man in his bed. He could not look John in the eyes. He had lost.

A feeling of eternal winter settled in his chest. They had been right, all of them. No one could love Sherlock Holmes, not even the most loving man in the world. Not even John Watson. 'You can leave.'

"Cheers." Sarcasm dripped from John's tongue as he maneuvered the keys into the handcuffs, and he sighed with satisfaction when they clicked open. He watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, sitting up, dropping the restraints in his lap and rubbing his aching wrists. "Damn, that hurts," he muttered irritably.

A hollow space had engulfed Sherlock's chest, eating his heart and all the useless feelings that went with it. What a fool he had been. 'I am sorry, John. I need to...I need to go to my mind palace.'_ I need to escape._ Sherlock crossed the room and walked through the open door. He stood for several moments staring blankly at the opposite wall. What would he do now? One thing Sherlock knew for fact was he would never be able to look at John again. He shook his head and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Without a look back at John, Sherlock walked to the sofa and sat down, clasping his hands together under his chin and closing his eyes. He needed to concentrate on something else. How he wished he had a case right now. Fuck.

John sat on the bed... their bed... for several long seconds. He mulled over the last few minutes in his head, and chuckled lowly. Oh, he should have seen this coming a mile away. Sherlock was right; sometimes he was extraordinarily slow. John stood, stretching, popping his stiff shoulders. This... was perfect. It made the most sense of anything that Sherlock had ever done. He was human. He was jealous, and possessive, and he hated his family. _Lovely. Welcome to the human race_.

John glanced down at the silver handcuffs on the bed, and he snatched them up, striding over to the bureau with every intention of placing them discreetly back into the top drawer alongside the handgun. But his feet turned instead, and led him out to the sitting room. He stood in the hall, his head cocked, his fingers tight around the cold metal. Sherlock sat on the sofa, in his customary meditative position. It was only John's keen observance of this man that allowed him to see the stress lines in his brow, his mouth, under his eyes. He exhaled slowly. John pursed his lips, and plodded over to him. With one swift motion, he'd captured both of Sherlock's wrists and was standing over his prisoner with raised eyebrows.

Sherlock looked up at John, his lips twitched slightly. 'What are you doing, John?' His voice was tired. Sherlock wished John would just leave him alone. If the man was done with him then why couldn't he leave Sherlock the hell alone? Was Sherlock such a laughable thing that John wanted to stay around and poke at him? Was Sherlock that...inhuman?

"You're the detective," John quipped. He stood jauntily, his hips thrown out, naked and sporting a half erection. He hadn't been turned on a few moments ago... all he'd been able to think about was how sore he was, and how he'd been ravaged the night before, hard enough to last a lifetime. But now, an idea was beginning to take form in his head, and he felt the stirrings of excitement and desire. John leaned down, meeting Sherlock's grey eyes. "You tell me."

Sherlock leaned back, making no move to take his wrists from John's grasp. He closed his eyes; he didn't want to look at John, not when he was so completely naked, not when his cock was still slightly stiff and so accessible. 'I'm not in the mood, John. I told you, I need to go to my mind palace.' _Just leave me alone, _he silently pleaded.

"Fine. Go on then. I want you to." John stepped closer, and grabbed at Sherlock's wrists, dragging them over his head, pushing him back against the couch cushions and climbing up over his thighs to straddle him. He felt the hitch of breath beneath that tight dress shirt, and he smiled darkly. "Go on then, Sherlock, if you can find your way to your... mind palace..." John's mouth grazed his ear, and he bit down on the lobe, hard. "I won't stop you," he whispered. Then, with one hand holding Sherlock's wrists immobile against the wall, and the other tangling in his curls, John began to rock, his arse rotating insistently on his young lover's lap.

Sherlock bit back a moan. Why was John doing this to him? 'Wha-what are you doing?' He grunted, squeezing his eyes closed even tighter. Sherlock could feel himself get hard, fuck it all. His body was betraying him. He gasped as he felt John's erection against his stomach. Sherlock let out a little whimper. 'Why are you doing this, John?' He opened his eyes and looked at John. Why was John torturing him? _Oh, God!_ A groan escaped his full lips as John twisted the hand in his hair, pulling on it, making Sherlock's scalp burn.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" John purred in his ear, and he gave those dark, silken curls another yank. Sherlock bucked a little beneath him, and he ground down in response, gasping a little, his mouth latching onto the long expanse of neck laid out before him. "Don't you like this?" he murmured, biting, sucking, licking his way down Sherlock's neck to his collarbone, nuzzling his nose into it. "I want you to go to your mind palace, Sherlock. Go, and find everything, everything in that room marked John Watson. Go and search it, Sherlock. Search it and answer your own question... Am I going to leave you?" At this, he took a great deal of flesh into his mouth, right about Sherlock's left nipple, and he bit it, so hard that he was afraid he'd made Sherlock bleed.

Sherlock let out an aroused yelp, John's voice was so low and so seductive, his arse was grinding down onto Sherlock's already raging erection. Sherlock's skin tingled with pain; he could feel John's hot breath through the slightly damp fabric. 'You..ah! You sa-fuuuuuck!' Sherlock bucked up against John's buttocks, he could not help himself. John's hand around Sherlock's wrist was tight, cutting into Sherlock's circulation. John was naked and bruised and lacerated, and so very much in control. Sherlock was completely in his power, captivated by those deep, dark eyes and that provocative voice. Sherlock was helpless against John.

The lean body of the consulting detective was beginning to tremble, and John dropped Sherlock's hair in favor of running his right hand all over the planes of his chest, his shoulders, his stomach... he gazed deep into those cloudy eyes, and grabbed his chin, forcing Sherlock to stare back. "Well? Go on then, go to your mind palace. You don't need your hands, not really." John smirked, sitting back and narrowing his eyes. "Go on, show me. go to your mind palace. Find me there." He always found this fascinating. He continued the grind, slow and rhythmic against Sherlock's crotch, and he hummed appreciatively as he felt that hard cock nudge his arse. John let his hand drift down Sherlock's torso, slipping to rub his palm against his own naked erection. He shuddered.

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying desperately to not think of John. Trying desperately to go to his mind palace. Trying desperately to - _John, naked and wet in the shower after their first time together, lathering himself with soap. John licking Sherlock's fingers, John touching his cock, teasing himself, John's lips moaning Sherlock's name lustfully, rubbing up against Sherlock like an animal in heat. _

'Christ! John!' The sob ripped out of Sherlock, he moved against John. John was everywhere, he could not escape him. He didn't want to. John had conquered Sherlock. Every last drop of Sherlock belonged to that short, gorgeous, fucking sexy, dirty, lewd John Hamish Watson. And Sherlock loved it.

"That's right, Sherlock, say my name..." John snarled, and his free hand began fumbling with the buttons on Sherlock's too-tight shirt, freeing them easily, his fingers surprisingly nimble and fast. He rose up just long enough to tear at the trousers, unhooking, unzipping, grabbing at the hard flesh inside roughly. John pushed them down, just enough to access that monstrous cock, and he laughed when he saw it. It was fucking huge. It was swollen, and rosy, and wet, and practically had his name written all over it. This cock was made for John, and he was made for it. He settled back down, letting it nudge the crack of his buttocks, hissing and sighing as Sherlock's pretty head began to toss. "Now, tell me, Sherlock Holmes, tell me... Am I leaving you?" He thrust his hips forward, down, watching with keen interest as his lover groaned deeply.

Sherlock tried pushing up into John, but John would have none of it, pushing his hips down, making Sherlock behave. 'No. No. No. Never. Don't leave me.' Sherlock moved his hands against John's, trying half-heartedly to break free of the strong grip, feeling the cool metal of the cuffs kissed his lower wrists. His breath was coming in short gasps now, his chest heaving with every intake of air. His cock was so hard it hurt; there was a red bite mark around one of his nipples where some of the skin had broken and little pricks of blood had pushed to the surface. Sherlock wanted more, he needed more. He needed John to own him thoroughly, he wanted to be inside that hot arse, he wanted John to ride him, he wanted John to make himself cum while his arse hole clenched Sherlock's cock in that tight, indecent manner.

"That's not what I asked." John continued to stroke himself, his eyes bright as Sherlock struggled against him, unable to break the grip he had on his wrists. Those slender digits brushed his palm, and John found himself curling his own fingers to twist in amongst Sherlock's, bringing him comfort, bringing him warmth, bringing him a sweet assurance. He leaned down, nudging his nose, and nipping at his mouth as he whispered fiercely, "I didn't ask you what you wanted, Sherlock. I asked you to look at me, and tell me... am I EVER leaving you? Look at me, Sherlock. Use your senses. Make a deduction. SEE me." John sat back, shoulders square, chest heaving, body rolling with every thrust of Sherlock's hips, thighs strained. His heart was thudding in his chest. This thing…this one thing... Sherlock had to find out for himself. For once, John could not help him.

Sherlock looked at John, really looked. John was kissing him, holding his hands. Sherlock let his head fall down on John's shoulder, his whole body shaking with uncontrollable, silent, relieved laughter. John was never going to leave him. Never. Sherlock kissed the crook of John's neck. 'You will never leave me.' He whispered hotly. Sherlock arched his body against John's, wanting to feel him as much as he could. 'You're mine. You're mine. You're mine.' He bucked up against John, grinding into him, moaning his name, his lips parted and kissing, sucking John's neck. 'John! John!'

"Fuck, yes, Sherlock," John nearly sobbed, and he dropped his hand, pulling Sherlock's along with it. He hooked the cuffed wrists around his neck, and leaned his forehead onto his lover's, inhaling rapidly through his nose. "You know I love you," he breathed, and felt Sherlock's shudder under his hands as he mapped out the lean body he adored. "Every time we do this, Sherlock... every time... It's me, loving you." And to emphasize his point, John Watson, spread his legs, and lowered himself onto that throbbing, hot length, his mouth gaping, a fire in his cheeks as he felt himself split open. He stifled the cry in Sherlock's shoulder, taking the long cock in slowly, pain searing his mind, woven with an intense pleasure beyond anything he'd ever experienced. Nothing... nothing was this good. Nothing except Sherlock.

Sherlock sat perfectly still, his eyes wide open, his mouth agape, his heart pounding against his chest as John screamed into his neck, as John took in the full length of Sherlock's cock, sitting on him. Sherlock willed his body not to move, he gulped, waiting for John to adjust to his size. The hot, smooth, velvety insides surrounding Sherlock's cock lovingly. 'Christ!' he whimpered, licking his trembling lips as John slowly started to move, impaling himself on Sherlock's long erection.

John ducked his head, resting it on Sherlock's bone hard sternum as he began to rise, and fall, his thigh muscles flexing with every motion. Sherlock's whimpers were like a drug, rushing through his veins, blasting through his senses, settling in his groin and making his cock weep. John groaned, low and guttural and he held his breath as Sherlock's gorgeous dick twitched inside of him, brushing his prostate, making him squirm and jolt. It was electricity, bright white flashes of hot pleasure, licking at the edges of his perception, raising goose flesh, making his toes curl on the sofa cushions. "Sherlock... Sherlock... so good..." he moaned, beginning to ride harder, feeling the thickness pull him apart from the inside out.

Sherlock tightened his arms around John's neck, twisting his long fingers in that short sandy hair. He felt John, he felt all of John. This experience was more than he had ever imagined, more than he had known could be possible. John was fucking himself on Sherlock's cock, John was moaning, thrusting, trembling on Sherlock, for Sherlock. That familiar hot coil bunched up inside Sherlock's stomach filling him to the brim, making him want to cum. 'John, touch your cock, I can't reach it. Please, ooh Gooooood. Fondle your fucking cock for me, now, John!' He hissed, moving his hips a little, even though he tried to keep them still. Sherlock wanted John to be the only thing moving like that, but he could not help but jostle against him ever so slightly.

"Hmm..Hmm... oh... Sherlock, fuck..." John was barely coherent now. Sherlock was bucking up into him, just a bit, just enough to provide an extra jolt every time he slid down his huge length, and bursts of ecstasy were exploding behind his eyes, growing brighter and larger with every passing second. He obeyed the command, one hand grasping his own erection, brown and aching and pulsing by now, and the other latched onto Sherlock's exposed chest, digging his fingernails in, marking him as he had been marked. He screamed Sherlock's name as he began to pump his fist, fucking himself on the long, wicked cock of his best mate, his lover, his idol, and John flailed as he rode, once... twice... and then a low, shuddering moan escaped his lips. "Oh, fuuuuuck..." He exploded, back arching, sweat dripping from his brow, and the orgasm came in successive pulses, one after another, five, seven. It was everywhere. His muscles clenched down on Sherlock, and he laughed aloud as he continued to roll along the waves, his sperm adorning Sherlock's straining neck.

As John came all over him, the sudden tightening, the shudders, the thrusts pushed Sherlock over the edge. He threw his head back and clenched his fingers in John's beautiful hair, screaming out John's name as he unloaded into John. The feeling of pure pleasure, pure arousal bubbling over making him arch and writhe uncontrollably, making him come completely undone before John Watson, covered completely in the doctor's sent. John had marked Sherlock Holmes as his.

John stayed there, tense and trembling, for several seconds, long after the climax faded. He waited, waited until he felt the last of Sherlock's pumps fill him, the last of the heat splattering against his insides, until Sherlock sagged against the sofa, gasping and slack. John collapsed then, wrapping strong arms around his slender lover, and he embraced him, gently, forcefully. "Sherlock Holmes," he murmured into his chest, lying so that he could feel the racing of that gigantic heart. "I will never leave you."

Sherlock buried his head into John's hair, his whole body quivering with relief and joy. To his surprise he felt hot tears well up in his eyes and spill over. 'I love you John.' His voice was thick and husky. 'I love you so much.'

"I know." John pressed kisses into the damp curls on the crown of his head, and he reluctantly extricated himself from Sherlock's grasp. With the delicacy of a surgeon, John unlocked the handcuffs, shifting uncomfortably as he felt the sticky thickness of Sherlock's semen sliding down his leg. He blushed fiercely as the detective's eyes followed the white trail, his nostrils flaring, eyes dilating once more. John held out his hand. "Come on then, Sherlock. Let's get you cleaned up."

Sherlock grasped John's callused hand and smiled impishly, pulling the doctor down onto him once more for a single passionate kiss. 'As you wish,' he whispered against John's lips, laughing a little.

Somewhere in the bedroom, John's phone buzzed. Mycroft. John smiled into the kiss, and he thrust his tongue into the caverns of Sherlock's sweet, untainted mouth. His. All his. No one else had tasted this man. No one else had loved this man. He belonged to John forever. And John was going to keep him. He pulled back. "Feel better?" he asked cheerily.

Sherlock nodded, a wide lopsided grin covered his face from ear to ear. 'You know,' he said thoughtfully, 'I never realised handcuffs could be so...useful.'

John lifted his eyebrows in agreement, and pulled him from the sofa.

* * *

><p>Please review. I swear, we write better the more reviews we get. It's scientifically proven…well…uh, kind of.<p>

And a nod to Nivalkenival who requested Part II. We hope that it lived up to your expectations and that you enjoyed this as much as the first one! We also want to take some time to thank those of you who have been faithfully reading and reviewing our stories. Neither of us have ever had fans before and we are so deeply touched by your kindness.


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